Stags. I freeze on the pavement.
Marty appears at my side. ‘Tequila?’
Bugger it. ‘Go on, then.’
Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. Naughty Marty.
‘WOOOOOOOOOOO! I LOVE this song!’
Yep, that was me screaming. And now I appear to be dancing on a table. How did that happen?
I have a flashback to my hen night, when my friend Natalie tried to teach me how to tango. I wonder if I can tango on this table. I could also really do with one of those penis whistles Cheryl gave me that night. I need to make some NOISE!
‘Laura, come down!’ two Bridgets shout up at me. Yay! Now I’m seeing double. ‘You’re going to kill yourself!’
I crack up laughing and stumble. Straight into Rick’s arms.
‘You okay?’ he asks with amusement as he puts me down.
‘You are definitely not pissed enough,’ I berate him.
‘Pissed?’
‘Drunk,’ I explain, forgetting pissed means angry, here.
‘Oh.’ He shrugs. ‘I don’t drink much. Anyway, we’ve got a dive tomorrow.’
Whoops. The snorkelling. Forgot about that.
‘Take Your Mama’ by Scissor Sisters starts to play and another memory of my hen night comes back to me: Shona and Sharon doing karaoke! That was a fun evening. I should do it again sometime. Do it again? Another hen do? Suddenly I find this thought absolutely hilarious. I burst into uncontrollable laughter.
‘I think you’ve had one too many tequilas,’ Marty says, swiftly replacing Rick at my side.
‘Correction!’ I say in a comedy American accent. ‘I haven’t had enough! More tequila!’ I shout. ‘Bloody hell, I loved my hen do. We should do it again sometime!’ I squeal out loud to Marty. By now I’m in hysterics.
‘I think we need to get you something else to eat,’ Marty says firmly.
‘Peanut M&Ms!’ I erupt. ‘Do you remember how Amy and Susan had those on tap on my hen night? Where are they now? They should be here! On THIS hen do! And where’re Allison and Andrea? Where are they? Why didn’t you invite them?’ Out of the blue I feel angry with her.
‘Time to get you to bed.’ Marty marches me out of the bar, grabbing a resigned Bridget as we pass. ‘See you in the morning, boys!’ she calls in their general direction.
‘You are no fun at all,’ I say as we spill out onto the pavement, right into the path of an oncoming hen, wearing a veil and L-plates. She’s followed by a gaggle of girls all laughing and dressed up to the nines.
‘Hey! You!’ I shout as they start to pass us. The bride-to-be gives me a look of surprise over her shoulder. ‘Don’t do it!’ I yell at her, before loudly lamenting: ‘Where are all the GAYS?’
‘Shhhhh!’ Marty warns, pulling me away. ‘Ignore her, she’s drunk!’ she tells the stunned girls, who warily move on.
Without warning, my anger turns to despair. ‘She’s having my baby! MY baby, Marty! It’s not fair.’
‘I know it’s not, shush, shush,’ Marty murmurs as she pulls me into her warm embrace.
‘Why did he do it?’ Tears start streaming down my face. ‘How could he do this to me? Wasn’t I enough?’
‘Of course you’re enough!’ Marty tells me fervently, shaking me at the same time. ‘He’s an idiot! He made a mistake!’
I start to sob. I’m vaguely aware of Bridget flagging down a cab, and after that: nothing.
I can’t believe we’re going through with this. I’ve already thrown up twice in the night, and now Marty seems to think it’s a bright idea to put me on a moving boat.
‘Have some more Nurofen,’ she says.
‘What are you, my dealer?’ I reply sarcastically, but take the tablets from her and down them with a drink of water from my bottle.
I feel like shit. I wanted to stay in bed, but Marty was having none of it.
‘You are not allowed to dwell in your own misery. You need something to take your mind off things.’ Blah blah blah.
And so here we are at a dive centre a few keys away, getting kitted out for masks and fins – or goggles and flippers, as Marty insists on calling them. Marty and Bridget are talking in low voices – no doubt recounting the events of last night – but I’m happy to ignore them. I really don’t want to talk.
Under instruction, we head outside and walk around the corner to where the dive boat is moored. Up ahead, Rick, Tom and Carl are barefoot and bare-chested, wearing black wetsuits peeled down to their waists.
‘Hello, boys,’ Marty murmurs appreciatively under her breath. I don’t even have the energy to roll my eyes.
‘How’s your head?’ Rick asks me with a grin as we approach.
‘It’s seen better days,’ I reply, and my voice is gravelly, thanks to the alcohol – and retching. Urgh.
‘The fresh air will help,’ he says as he guides me aboard.
The boat is wide, flat and low to the water. Bench seats line each side, with air tanks secured behind them. A canopy hangs over half of the boat, but the rest of the seating is in full sunshine. There are a couple of other groups of people with us, about half of whom seem to be diving, so the boat is almost full. I sit down next to Marty and rest my elbows on my knees. Rick, Carl and Tom settle down opposite us. I’m wearing white shorts and a cream-coloured vest over Bridget’s polka-dot swimming costume. I really must buy my own.
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly as we make our way out through the canal, past boats moored up at jetties outside residences mostly obscured by thick vegetation. I stare out of the back of the boat at the minimal wake we’re leaving. Rick is right: the fresh air is helping. I glance across at him to find him watching me, before turning back to stare at the diminishing shoreline.
As soon as we reach the reef, the boat becomes a hive of activity with the scuba-divers attaching weird hoses to their air tanks, adjusting weights on their belts and making various checks on their equipment. It all looks very complicated to me. We’d already be in the water, but we forgot to apply sunscreen. I turn so Marty can slap some on my back, then I return the favour and, while applying cream to her shoulders, I notice a man in shorts and a T-shirt on the other side of the boat. An olive-skinned, black-haired . . . No way, it’s him! The guy from the other night!
‘What are you doing?’ Marty asks me with annoyance. I come to with surprise, realising that my hands have stopped moving. I apply the rest of her sunscreen, trying not to stare too much.
He’s talking to the other guy: the cute one, the one I thought Marty might like. That guy is dressed in a black wetsuit and is obviously about to go diving. I wonder why Mr Beautiful isn’t diving. He turns and ducks down into the cabin. Hmm. It looks like he works here. He reappears and makes his way down the gangway towards us. I can’t take my eyes off him, and as he passes he brushes my arm with his, making my hairs stand on end. He’s tall – about six foot three or four, compared to my five foot eight, and he has broad shoulders and a slim waist.
‘Get a move on,’ Marty urges me, and I turn in a daze to see that she has already stripped off and is struggling to pull on one of her fins. I quickly lift my vest over my head and wriggle out of my shorts.
‘You snorkellers ready?’ He speaks! He has an American accent.
‘Yep,’ Marty replies, giving me a nudge.
I pull on my fins, intensely aware that I look like a complete idiot as I take a giant step in my enormous footwear towards the back of the boat. Please don’t let me fall over . . .
‘Have a good one,’ Rick calls after us.
‘You, too,’ I call back, wobbling slightly as I step down to the platform. Then Mr Beautiful’s hand is on my arm, steadying me. I freeze for a moment and look down at it with shock, before coming back to life. My cheeks blush a deep red, but thankfully he’s looking behind me at my friends.
‘It’s better to walk backwards,’ he tells them.
The water is a brilliant blue and there are dark shapes moving beneath the surface. I feel a flurry of nerves.
‘Okay, in you go,’ he says to me.
‘What are they?’ I ask him with worry.
‘Fish.’ He says the word as though I’m an idiot.
‘As long as they’re not sharks . . .’
‘Reef sharks won’t bite you.’
‘You mean, there are sharks?’ I ask with apprehension.
‘Of course. But it’s the barracuda you should be worried about.’ He turns to Marty behind me and I’m effectively dismissed.
‘Why would I be worried about the barracuda?’ I’m sorry, but, with my apprehension mounting, I’m not ready to get into the water yet, mister. I don’t care how gorgeous you are.
‘They bite if provoked,’ he snaps over his shoulder.
‘Get a move on!’ Marty hisses, and I glance behind her to see that some of the divers are ready and have started to form a queue behind us.
‘Big step.’ The man flashes me a look with his dark-almost-black eyes. ‘And don’t stand on the reef, because you’ll break the coral,’ he warns, assuming that I’m an amateur.
‘I know,’ I snap back, because I have been snorkelling before, even if it was years ago.
I bite on the snorkel and take a large stride out into the ocean, gasping as the cool water engulfs me. We turned down wetsuits, but maybe that was a bad idea. I’m a good swimmer, but I feel exposed in my swimming costume. I place my masked face under the surface and blow hard to expel water from my snorkel, before taking long, slow breaths. A rush of adrenalin pulses through me, and everyone and everything else in my life is instantly forgotten. The water is crystal clear and I’m amongst a shoal of silver and yellow fish. The sand below is pure white, and the nearby rocks are covered in pretty, intricately shaped coral. Tiny electric-blue fish dart amongst plants swaying in the current as I swim away from the boat. It’s a dazzling sight and I start to relax and enjoy myself. The salt water makes me incredibly buoyant so I barely have to kick. I look around to see Marty and Bridget snorkelling a few metres away. We give each other the thumbs up and try not to smile, otherwise we’ll get mouthfuls of salt water. Several steady streams of large bubbles rising from the sandy ocean floor reveal the whereabouts of the scuba-divers. I spot a starfish on some rocks and, taking a deep breath and blocking the end of the snorkel with my tongue so I don’t take in water, I duck beneath the surface and swim down to take a closer look. It’s breathtaking here. I feel so weightless and . . . free. It’s the happiest I’ve felt in a long time.
Later, we return to the boat and everyone is full of stories about the fish that they’ve seen. I hear several excited divers discussing a shoal of barracuda, and gather that there were also a couple of black-tipped reef sharks nearby, which I feel oddly disappointed about not seeing. I don’t know what’s got into me, but I’m even more certain I want to learn to dive. I look around for Mr Beautiful and find him at the front of the boat, where his friend is talking animatedly to him. I notice later that he’s the one to drive us back to the dive centre.
Back on dry land, Bridget, Marty and the boys head to the nearby Tiki Bar for a drink, and I go to the dive centre to enquire about diving courses. A redheaded girl comes out of the office to talk to me.
‘Did ya see any good fish?’ she asks with a funny accent as she scrolls down the screen of the computer in front of her, looking up potential scuba courses for me.
‘Yeah, it was amazing,’ I tell her.
‘Cool.’
‘Where are you from?’ I ask, trying to make polite conversation.
‘Auckland,’ she replies. ‘New Zealand.’
‘Have you been here long?’
‘Three months,’ she says, not looking at me as she studies the screen. ‘Gotta go home in a couple of weeks cos my visa runs out.’
‘Oh. That’s a shame.’
‘So there’s a PADI open-water diver course starting next week on Thursday through Saturday—’
‘It’s three days long?’ I interrupt with surprise.
‘Yep. The first day is in the classroom and the pool, and Days Two and Three are in the open water.’
‘Okay . . . But is there nothing available earlier?’ We fly home a week on Sunday and had planned to have a few days in Miami before we leave. ‘There are three of us wanting to learn,’ I add, hoping she can squeeze us in.
‘Hang on a minute,’ she says, calling back through to the office. ‘Jorge?’
‘Yep,’ comes the reply, and a moment later Jorge appears and I feel a vicarious thrill when I realise he’s the gorgeous guy’s friend from the boat. He’s now wearing a white T-shirt with graphics on the front and beige-coloured shorts. His short curly hair and his eyes are dark brown, and he’s cute, with very white teeth.
The redhead explains our situation.
‘I was wondering about Monday?’ she says. ‘You’ve only got two.’
‘Hmm.’ He frowns. ‘I wouldn’t normally take five in a class.’
‘Leo could help out?’ she suggests.
An inexplicable flurry of nerves passes through me. Leo? Is that his name?
‘I’ll ask.’
Jorge starts to walk out of the dive centre, but he turns back and motions for me to join him. He crosses over the road to the Tiki Bar, where my friends are currently ensconced. Its roof is thatched with palm leaves, and the walls are non-existent, the wooden interior open to the elements. I spot Marty and Bridget on the far side with Tom, Carl and Rick, but Jorge leads me straight to the bar, to a man sitting on a stool with his back to us, reading a newspaper. His toned, muscled back is visible through his pale orange T-shirt, and his black hair is slicked-back and glossy. Of course it’s him.
‘Leo,’ Jorge says. Leo looks over his shoulder and adrenalin pulses through me for the second time today.
‘This lady and her friends want to learn how to dive. I’ve already got two on the course on Monday. Can you pitch in?’
Leo’s eyes graze over my body and back to my face. I can’t read his expression, but he doesn’t look very happy. As I feel my face heat up, he casually turns back to his paper.
‘Sure.’ He shrugs.
‘Really?’ Jorge checks, a little surprised, it seems.
‘Yeah, why not?’ he replies absent-mindedly.
Jorge flashes me a grin.
‘Come in Monday morning at eight thirty and we’ll sort out payment and paperwork then. Bring your passports.’
‘Thanks.’ I return his smile.
‘Laura!’ I hear Marty call. She’s spotted me from across the bar.
‘See you then,’ I say to Jorge, taking one last look at Leo’s broad back before I make my way over to my friends.
‘What took you so long?’ Marty snaps. ‘Your Piña Colada has thawed.’
‘Looks drinkable enough to me,’ I say with a goofy grin, my mood now vastly improved. I sit down and glance over my shoulder at Leo. We make eye contact momentarily, his dark eyes boring into mine for a millisecond before his attention is returned to his paper.
But he was looking at me. He was definitely looking at me. And my hammering heart is proof.
The six of us go out again that night, and I’m on a surprising high. Marty and Bridget have stepped up their flirtations with Tom and Carl to another level, and although I’ve relaxed considerably, I’m trying not to encourage Rick. It’s not always easy, and a sad little part of me accepts that it’s nice to feel desirable, after everything I’ve been through. So I dance the night away and try not to drink too much.
The next day it’s the jet-skiing tournament, so we go to watch, and I have to admit it’s impressive stuff, the way they fly through the air and manoeuvre their machines with speed and control. Carl comes third, but Rick and Tom don’t fare as well, coming eighth and tenth respectively. Regardless of results, Marty and Bridget are practically salivating as they get ready that night. I feel slightly anxious, because I don’t want to feel left out, but I’m trying to stay strong.
‘How about here?’ Marty asks later after dinner with the
boys. She has to raise her voice over the sound of live music as we approach a busy bar, one with dollar notes stapled to the ceiling. There’s a guitar-wielding girl sitting on a stool and singing into a microphone with a deep, sultry voice. She’s wearing jeans and has long, dark, curly hair tied back into a ponytail, kept in order by a bandana.
‘Sure,’ Rick says, taking my hand and leading me into the bar. My eyes widen at his touch and it takes a moment before I think to extract my hand. By then we’ve already reached the bar and he needs his hand to retrieve his wallet, anyway.
‘My round. What are you having?’ He turns his piercing blue eyes on me.
‘Um . . . Maybe just a mineral water.’
‘Really?’ he asks with surprise.
‘I don’t want to get too drunk tonight.’
‘Why not? You’re on holiday. And it’s our last night . . .’ he says with a significant look.
‘I think I’ll stick to water, anyway,’ I reiterate, looking around for the toilet. The barman points me in the right direction.
‘You want some company?’ Marty calls after me.
‘No, I’m good,’ I reply. I’m actually craving some space. Matthew has started to plague my mind again. I don’t want to be here, watching my friends flirt outrageously. And I don’t want to lead Rick on.
As the night wears on, Rick becomes more and more tactile. Maybe if I were drinking, I wouldn’t mind so much. But I feel very different to last night, when I was on such a high after snorkelling. He keeps squeezing my shoulder, his arm draped over the back of my chair, and he doesn’t seem to notice how I tense up every time he does this.
Finally, I’m ready to call time on the evening. I lean in and pull Marty away from whatever she’s giggling about into Tom’s ear, and tell her that I’m going to go back to the hotel.
She looks momentarily disappointed, then replies, ‘We’ll come with you.’
‘No, no!’ I argue, but she’s already turned to the rest of the table. ‘Wanna come back for a drink on our balcony?’
‘Hell, yeah!’ come the enthusiastic replies as they knock back their drinks and stand up. Argh! I just want to go to bed.